


An Odd Encounter

by defying3reason



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Canon Era, Crack Crossover, Depression, M/M, Multiverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-20
Updated: 2014-08-20
Packaged: 2018-02-12 17:38:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2118804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/defying3reason/pseuds/defying3reason
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Amis are spending a pretty typical night in the Musain discussing politics and ignoring their homework when a pair of steampunk cosplayers enter and start asking the barista for directions in French. Upon closer inspection, they turn out not to be cosplayers.</p><p>My college AU Enjolras and Grantaire meet more canon-compliant counterparts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Odd Encounter

**Author's Note:**

> So this idea was tickling at my brain for kind of awhile, and I finally decided to just indulge it and get it out of my system. Basically, when I was writing my first college AU I was initially really careful about considering historical context in regards to the boys. When I envisioned Enjolras and Grantaire as college kids in the United States in 2013, I thought about what about them would be the same as 19th century French student radicals and what would be different. I always felt like I did a better job capturing Grantaire than Enjolras though, and that made me want to throw the two different head canons I had of the boys against each other. So that's what this indulgent character study I'm calling a story is. It doesn't fit into any of my fic-verses, though I am using the CB&HSG characterizations. Consider this a 'What If' or 'Elseworld' kind of thing.

“I don’t know why this is so hard for you guys to understand. This sort of thing happens in comic books all the time.”

“Yes, but seeing as our lives are _not_ in fact comic books, or any other form of entertainment for that matter-”

“Excuse me monsieur, but what exactly are comic books?”

Enjolras reluctantly turned his attention from Bahorel, whom he’d been arguing with, to the politely curious looking young man sitting opposite him at one of the longer tables in the back room of the Musain. Enjolras had been avoiding looking directly at the other young man as much as possible, because he found the guy’s very presence off-putting.

The off-putting feeling sprang from the peculiar circumstance of the strange young man appearing to be Enjolras’ double from another reality. Although to be fair, it’s not like the other Enjolras could _help_ that.

Enjolras didn’t want to be rude, but it was difficult holding a conversation with himself. He kept staring at the poor kid, or getting distracted by some odd tic they had in common but that he’d never really noticed before. Plus…he really didn’t want to admit that his friends were right about it, but he did have a spectacularly impressive glare.

Grantaire didn’t seem to be having any such problem. While Bahorel launched into a lengthy explanation about the history of comic books to Enjolras’ 19th century French counterpart, the 21st century American Enjolras quietly studied his boyfriend and his boyfriend’s doppelganger where they were sitting in a corner. The two had been trading rambling rants that were periodically interrupted with obnoxious laughing fits. At the moment, the other Grantaire was teaching his counterpart how to play dominoes, and in trade Grantaire was promising to introduce him to the wonderful world of video games.

Enjolras tuned back into the conversation at his own table, and realized Bahorel was talking about the fictional concept of multiple parallel earths used in superhero comics as though it were a known and studied actual phenomenon. “Comic books are fiction,” he interjected.

Bahorel rolled his eyes. “Well yeah, they’re just stories, but have you got a better explanation for what happened?”

Enjolras looked at his perfectly identical 19th century counterpart’s face, looked back at Bahorel, and quickly shook his head.

The night certainly hadn’t begun with any inkling of impending science fiction style improbability. Enjolras had met his friends at the Musain after his last class let out. A large group of them had gathered in the back room of the café, taking over most of the available seating as they hung out, ignored their homework, and discussed politics, as was their habit. About an hour into the night, a pair of lost looking guys their age had wandered into the café and gone up to the counter to ask the barista a few questions. At first no one really took note of them except Jehan, who liked to people-watch.

“Bahorel, is there some kind of steam punk convention going on?” Jehan asked, seemingly out of the blue as everyone else had been talking about trans rights (well, they’d started talking about trans rights but the conversation had quickly devolved into a who’s more bad ass, Janet Mock or Laverne Cox debate).

Bahorel had answered with a scowl. “I don’t fucking know. Why would I know?”

Courfeyrac quirked an eyebrow. “Okay, so you do drag and cosplay, but you turn your nose up at steam punk?”

“Fuck you. I’m not involved in _every_ costuming subculture. Wait, Jehan, why do you ask?”

“Oh, because of those gentlemen over there with the waistcoats and the cravats. Actually, the blond one looks rather dapper. I wonder if he had his outfit custom made.”

A few of them looked to the counter, curiosity awakened by Jehan’s comments. Enjolras finally looked up from his book when he felt the weight of several stares on him. Most of his friends were darting their gazes between him and the men talking to the barista. “What?” he snapped.

“Enjolras…you don’t have a twin brother you never mentioned, do you?” Courfeyrac asked.

“He has a cousin that looks a lot like him,” Combeferre said. “But that’s not Hugh and that’s…that’s a little weird.”

“What on earth are you…oh.” And then Enjolras finally got a good look at the strangers.

It took them a little longer to figure out that the second one was Grantaire. Enjolras and his double looked damn near identical. The 19th century Parisian wore his hair a little longer and he had better posture. His expression was colder, his words measured and precise where the 21st century version was candid and sometimes thoughtlessly passionate, but that difference in temperament was only slightly hinted at on their identically handsome faces.

The Grantaires, on the other hand, hardly resembled each other at all. They both had dark, messy hair. 21st century Grantaire was still growing his out from that regrettable haircut, and Enjolras caught himself staring longingly at the other Grantaire’s hair, until he realized that it wasn’t just unkempt, it was also poorly cared for and generally unhygienic. _His_ Grantaire sometimes let the personal grooming slide more than he should have when in the throes of a depressive cycle, but it looked like this version didn’t put any effort at all into making himself presentable. His skin was bad, his teeth were yellowed and crooked, he reeked of brandy and BO, and it looked like his nose might have healed funny from a past break.

It was odd, to say the least. Grantaire was Enjolras’ first and only sexual partner. He was intensely attracted to the man, emotionally, intellectually, and certainly physically…but suddenly he felt a new appreciation for the health and hygiene advancements made between their centuries.

They’d been chatting with the two doppelgangers for over an hour. Courfeyrac had gotten their attention, apparently rescuing the poor, confused barista as the men had been speaking French and she didn’t know any. The Parisians turned out to be conversational in English (they said they weren’t fluent, but their English was a hell of a lot better than anyone else’s French). They were understandably surprised to find themselves in America. Apparently they’d just been leaving a version of the Musain in Paris in their century, and then somehow found themselves in this one.

Over an hour’s worth of idle chatter had brought forth no better explanations than Bahorel’s comic book related one, so everyone agreed to settle on infinite alternate earths until something more likely presented itself.

Parisian-Enjolras, despite a somewhat aloof demeanor, was pretty obviously fascinated at seeing a new century (which was kind of odd…Bostonian-Enjolras kept it to himself, but he felt he would have been at least a little freaked out if he’d been the one to wander into an alternate reality). The young man enthusiastically questioned his counterpart about politics, the great wars, the shift from despotic monarchs to despotic corporations as the oppressors of the people (same disease, different symptoms), and the technological advances he could see in action all around him. Feuilly and Combeferre had to break in for a bit to explain how cars worked, as Enjolras only had a passing understanding of that subject at absolute best.

The other Grantaire, for his part, appeared disinterested in the lectures. He decided pretty early in that the 21st century only different from the 19th in trappings and not essentials, and that for all his dreams of progress and a perfected future, Enjolras would still find inequality and misery in abundance. Still, it was fairly obvious, despite his professed indifference, that he was eavesdropping on their conversation.

As the night wore on, the band of students found themselves unwillingly confronted with matters of practicality. They still had no idea how the 19th century Parisian doppelgangers had gotten to their hipster Massachusetts café, nor were they any closer to figuring out how to get them back to their own time and city.

“They’ve got to stay someplace until we figure this out,” Courfeyrac observed. “Marius is still hogging my couch, otherwise I’d offer my place.”

“We’ve already got the Thenardiers tonight,” Joly said with a frown.

“And Bossuet,” Feuilly reminded him. Joly laughed self-consciously. He had a tendency to forget that his boyfriend wasn’t technically his roommate. Feuilly, on the other hand, was perfectly aware and a touch annoyed that Legle stayed over nearly every night without paying rent or utilities.

“They could just stay with their doubles,” Courfeyrac said, turning his gaze towards Enjolras. “God knows you’ve got the room.”

It really was the soundest suggestion. Not only did they have the space, but their counterparts would also be able to borrow clothing guaranteed to fit (eventually the idea that they were steampunk cosplayers would cease to be credible) and they also had a unique insight into how the other young men were perceiving their strange new surroundings. Enjolras had already anticipated his other self’s confusion on a few subjects several times and reworded things as needed. Besides that, he wanted to hear a few more stories about the uprisings of 1830 and 1832 from someone who’d been there.

The four of them climbed into Enjolras’ car, the two blondes in front, the brunettes in the back. Grantaire had tried for his usual seat beside his boyfriend, but the Enjolrases had been in deep conversation about the Occupy movement at the time, and when it didn’t occur to Parisian-Enjolras that Grantaire might want to sit next to his “roommate,” Grantaire didn’t bother correcting him.

Parisian-Grantaire passed out almost as soon as he’d sat down. Feeling for his boyfriend, who must be bored with only a slumbering drunk and a conversation topic he hated for entertainment, Enjolras put on a punk-heavy playlist he’d made for his lover and faded the sound to the back. They met gazes in the rearview mirror, and Grantaire offered him a grateful little smile.

“How is it that the two of you came to take rooms together?” the other Enjolras asked, once the Occupy topic exhausted itself.

“It just kind of happened organically when we started spending more time together,” Enjolras explained. “Grantaire’s apartment is small and dirty. My place is nicer, so we usually end up there. He doesn’t officially live with me though.” With the way things had been, they’d probably be there soon enough…

The other Enjolras cast a glance at the backseat, where the Grantaire from his time period was drooling on himself while the 21st century version thoughtfully gazed out the window and quietly sang along with a song about civil disobedience. “Hm. Well, there seems to be a certain qualitative difference between the messieurs in question. I couldn’t see myself taking rooms with Grantaire as he is in my period, save under some sort of dire circumstances.”

Enjolras had already figured out that the doppelgangers weren’t romantically involved with each other the way he and Grantaire were. The men had barely interacted all night; the Grantaires had remained in their corner being boisterous and fun, while the Enjolrases had been in another corner being serious and discussing politics. Still…19th century Enjolras didn’t seem to even _like_ his Grantaire all that much. Enjolras couldn’t help but wonder if the two were even friends.

He was starting to wonder if he should tell them about his relationship with Grantaire. The Parisians hadn’t been at all thrown by exposure to homosexuality. Joly and Legle’s relationship, far from coming as any kind of shock, appeared to exist in a slightly altered form in their own time (the alteration being that it included their friend Musichetta). They’d been pleasantly surprised to learn that Courfeyrac and Jehan were dating, and the other Grantaire had even expressed a wish for that to be replicated in their reality as well.

19th century Enjolras was not similarly enthused with the suggestion. “Legle and Joly are distraction enough. Les Amis de L’ABC could do with fewer romances, not more. There is far too much to accomplish without everyone’s attention constantly diverting from our purpose.”

“Come now Enjolras, some men are capable of falling in love and being proper martyrs for their hopeless causes all at once. Not everyone’s as distractedly stupid and useless about it as Pontmercy.”

19th century Grantaire’s words set off shouts of laughter and jests aimed at their own Marius, who’d skipped out on the night’s gathering to have dinner with Cosette and Valjean, putting him in perfect symmetry with his counterpart in an alternate reality, from the sounds of it. 19th century Enjolras ended the good humor with his next comment.

“Who are you to slight Marius? At least he has a pretense, however foolish, for his uselessness. You merely have your fundamental being, which is no excuse at all.”

That had been the remark that sent the other Grantaire into the far corner with a bottle and his dominoes. On the plus side, Bostonian-Grantaire had done a fairly good job prodding his double out of what would have been a noisy, alcohol-fueled sulk.

Enjolras pulled into his driveway and parked beside his landlord’s minivan. He explained about his landlords living downstairs from him, and that they’d have to be quiet on their way in so as not to wake the elderly couple.

“That might be a problem,” Grantaire chimed in from the back seat. “Other-me seems to have issues with an indoor voice. Course, I’m not entirely sure we’ll be able to wake him up anyhow. He’s out cold.”

The Parisian Enjolras rolled his eyes, radiating disgust. For whatever reason, even though it wasn’t aimed at him the 21st century Grantaire flinched in response.

Enjolras climbed out of the car and opened the back door. He couldn’t help but feel some compassion for the poor guy, who looked unhappy even while black-out drunk. He gently tried to rouse him, but of course it was pointless. “I’ll take one arm, I guess. ‘Taire, can you get the other?”

“Sure.” Grantaire helped hoist his other self out of the car, and then the two of them half-carried, half-dragged him towards the stairwell. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever been on this side of this before. Other than the hangover, I think I prefer the magically waking up in bed part.”

“Believe me, there was never anything magical about getting you to bed,” Enjolras ground out. “Unless you think dead weight and crusted vomit are magical.”

“Nope, that does not meet definition.”

The other Enjolras lagged behind them, but he darted forwards to help them with doors. It took some effort, as this Grantaire had a heavier build than his artsty-hipster-cynic counterpart, but they finally settled the other Grantaire on the sofa in the living room. Enjolras went to get a spare blanket from the hall. On second thought, he also snagged a bottle of water and left it on the coffee table in easy reach of the poor drunk.

“Eugh,” the sober Grantaire groaned. “Y’know what? I think I’ll skip over video games. The first thing I’m teaching the other me about our time period is deodorant. He’s going to make really good friends with deodorant before he borrows any of my clothes.”

“Oh come on, it’s not his fault.” Enjolras moved to put the blanket over him, but then he paused. “Um…we should probably take his boots off, huh?”

Grantaire smirked. “Okay Enj, time to put your money where your mouth is. Seriously, prove that I’m just being cruel and insensitive about that dude’s repellant odors and pry those boots right off. Because seriously, he smells bad enough without sweaty feet thrown into the mix.”

Enjolras threw the blanket at his boyfriend, then knelt down beside the couch and started prying off the boots. He very carefully breathed only through his mouth until he was done, and immediately stuffed the overpowering footwear into a closet to somewhat help with the new (and particularly strong) offensive odor.

His Grantaire had his t-shirt pulled up over his nose. “That is awful. Babe, please tell me I never smelled half as bad as that. I mean, I know I get pretty grody sometimes, but…”

“Grantaire, you’ve never smelled like an unfortunate depressive from a time period before frequent bathing was a social norm.”

“Kay. Because 19th century you doesn’t stink.” Grantiare turned to look at the other Enjolras, almost accusatively. “Which is weird, because by our standards you probably should.”

The other Enjolras wrinkled his brow in confusion. “I’m not sure how to respond to that.”

“Feel free to ignore him,” Enjolras advised. “I’ll get you some clothes to wear to bed. I suppose we should leave something for Grantaire to change into whenever he wakes up.”

“I’ll grab something,” Grantaire mumbled before stalking off.

Things only felt weirder when the other Enjolras changed into a pair of sweatpants and an old t-shirt. Now, other than the longer hair, he looked exactly like Enjolras.

“Other than the resting bitch face, anyway,” Grantaire pointed out when Enjolras brought it up to him once they were in bed. They’d set the 19th century Enjolras up on the sofa in the den, then retreated to the bedroom together.

Grantaire looked like he was taking everything in stride, but Enjolras was finally starting to feel freaked out.

“I don’t think I like the other me,” he confessed. “He’s…I mean, he’s certainly capable of being likeable when he wants to be. But the rest of the time…he’s a bit cruel, isn’t he?”

Grantaire shrugged. “I didn’t get to talk to him as much as you did. I think cruel’s a bit much though. Are you saying that because he’s so harsh on the other me?”

Enjolras lowered his gaze and nodded. Seeing a version of himself treating Grantaire with open disdain reminded him of how he’d treated his lover back before they’d started dating. He’d been frustrated and worried for his friend the time, and sometimes the concern he’d felt had been lost in sharp comments born from that fear. He still felt guilt for all the times he’d lashed out at Grantiare when the man had been at his weakest, and he didn’t like being reminded of his poor past behavior.

“Kay, Enj…first thing’s first. He is not you and I am not that other guy.” Grantaire tilted his chin up so that they were looking eye to eye. He wrapped an arm around Enjolras and pulled him closer until they were cuddled together on the bed. “I mean sure, we have a lot in common with those two, but our circumstances are totally different. For starters, I continue to be really happy that I live in a period with deodorant and orthodontics. I’m not exactly surprised that your perfect teeth are completely natural, by the by. I’m not sure whether to love you more or hate you for your freakish good looks.”

“So you had braces, huh?” Enjolras asked. “Why are some of your bottom teeth still crooked then?”

“Because I lost my retainer. I was thirteen. I was even less responsible then than I am now.”

Enjolras leaned forward and gave him a quick kiss. “Well I like the crooked ones on the bottom. They give you character. What’s the second thing?”

“The second thing is that you really shouldn’t judge the other you too harshly for judging the other me. I mean think about it…I’ve got some pretty serious issues that I’ve been working on. The alcoholism, the depression…”

“Yes, you’re suffering from some illness, but you’re getting better and you’re doing marvelously well and-oh.” In the midst of the reassurances he gave his lover at least a few times a day, something clicked in Enjolras’ head. “And we know that those are diseases you were genetically predisposed to.”

“But in their time period, that shit’s still thought of as a character flaw. The other you has no idea what the other me is going through. He thinks he’s just an infuriating drunken asshole. He probably even thinks the other me does it on purpose.”

Which is actually what Enjolras used to think some of the time. Ashamed of what he’d perceived as myriad failings, Grantaire had tried his best to hide his weaknesses from his crush while also spectacularly giving into them. The end result hadn’t been pretty, and it had obscured Grantaire’s better characteristics for a couple of years.

Now, though he was still struggling with the alcoholism and depression, Grantaire wasn’t letting himself get overtaken by his sickness. His lovely blue gaze was clear and thoughtful, his clever brain more humorous than poisonous as it picked apart his surroundings. Enjolras took a moment to catalogue the differences he could see in his lover while Grantaire sleepily stroked back his hair, a stupid little smile tugging his lips. Seeing the other Grantaire, the miserable one, only threw the man’s emerging strength into stronger contrast. Enjolras felt profoundly grateful for the changes.

At the same time, he couldn’t help but feel a bitterly overwhelming pity for the miserable creature passed out in his living room. Idealist though he was, Enjolras couldn’t see the poor wretch getting any support from the smug bastard sleeping in his den.

* * *

 

Grantaire started to wake the next morning when he heard an odd whizzing noise somewhere above his head. He would have been more alarmed, but a pleasing floral scent followed the noise, and besides that, coming to full wakefulness would mean dealing with how wretched he felt from the excesses of the previous night, and he was always in favor of putting the moment of reckoning for his dissolute ways off as long as possible.

“What on earth are you doing?”

His attention perked up at the sound of that particular voice, and then dulled again because the inflections were all wrong.

“I think it’s fairly obvious what I’m doing.” Hearing his own voice, even though he hadn’t said anything, probably should have worried him more. Grantaire couldn’t really be bothered though. He’d dreamed odder things.

“You are not seriously spraying a sleeping guest with Febreeze.”

“First, he’s not really a guest. And second…come on! He fucking stinks, Enjolras. And it’s not like we haven’t done it to Bahorel before.”

“That’s different. We _know_ Bahorel. This is rude.”

Grantaire finally cracked his eye open, caught the barest glimpse of his alternate self arguing with an alternate Enjolras, and then resolutely closed his eyes and groaned as his throbbing head insistently challenged his attempt to sit up without emptying the contents of his stomach. He heard the floorboards creak as someone approached and knelt down beside him, and then felt a hand gently clasp his shoulder.

“Grantaire? If you’re awake you should probably have some of this water. I can get you some medicine to help with your headache too.”

Well, it _sounded_ like Enjolras’ voice. Aside from the fact that he was far too gentle and quiet.

The other Enjolras (the nice one, Grantaire couldn’t help but think) helped him sit up and pressed a bottle of water into his hands. He took a few slow sips, memories of the previous night hazily returning to him. His alternate self had disappeared, but the pleasing floral scent still lingered in the air.

“How are you feeling?” Nice-Enjolras asked.

“Wretched, but that’s to be expected,” Grantaire answered. “If you can spare this couch for a few more hours, my strength will return of its own accord and then I’ll be on my way.”

Nice-Enjolras smirked, and the mocking little smile was just as pretty as any expression he’d ever glimpsed on the real Enjolras. “And where are you intending to go? The two of you are still lost travelers in a parallel universe.”

“Right. That is a bit of a quandary, isn’t it?”

“Grantaire and I don’t mind if you stay with us for a few days. We’ve both got classes to get to this morning though, so you’ll have your few hours to rest up. I’ve got a break this afternoon. I’ll come back and check up on the two of you then.”

“Thank you.” Grantaire leaned back against the couch cushion and closed his eyes in a grimace as the shift in posture set his head to throbbing again. “You said something about a medicine for my headache?”

“Yes, of course. I’ll be right back.”

Grantaire listened to the man’s soft, measured steps as he left the room and thought on this strange reality with a strangely thoughtful Enjolras who pitied him and wanted him to be comfortable. There was a certain niceness in it, but overall Grantaire didn’t find Nice-Enjolras nearly as appealing as _his_ Enjolras.

Meanwhile, the 21st century Grantaire had gone to check on the 19th century Enjolras. He found him awake as well, but in much better shape than his companion. He’d folded up the blankets already, dressed, and was reading through one of Enjolras’ books on Reconstruction.

“So it really took you Americans another thirty years to do away with slavery?” he said by way of greeting.

Grantaire shrugged. “Legally sanctioned slavery, at least. Human trafficking’s still an international issue. Feuilly’s been doing some reading on that, if you want to bug him about it at the Musain later.” He sat down on the arm of the couch and waited for Other-Enjolras to finish the paragraph he was reading. After another minute, Enjolras closed the book and politely regarded his host.

“Enj and I have classes until three today. He’s going to run back here after his lit class and check up on you guys, but otherwise you’re going to be alone here until then. Before we head out I want to give you a quick introduction to indoor plumbing and the microwave.”

He stood up, intending to show his guest to the bathroom, but was stopped by a hand on his arm. Grantaire turned around and eyed Enjolras expectantly.

“Grantaire, why are you and my double living together? He made it out to be a matter of convenience, but there’s more to it than that, isn’t there?”

Fuck, but Enjolras would leave this conversation to him. Grantaire awkwardly ran a hand through his hair, frowning. “Uh…well, I mean we don’t really have a…I mean, we’ve never talked about the fact that we’re pretty much living together. But it started when we started going out with each other.”

Enjolras’ eyebrows knit together in confusion. “Going out?”

“We’re dating. Uh…romantically involved. I’m fucking in love with him, okay?”

Expression still inscrutable, the other Enjolras slowly nodded. “I’d thought so.”

“You…did?”

“Well, yes. You live together, you share a bed, and you’re obviously fond of each other.”

Grantaire couldn’t help but wonder how the other Enjolras had figured out they shared a bed, as neither of them had shown their guests the bedroom, but then he decided he didn’t really want to know. “And you’re…okay with that?”

“It’s not really my business to object. Besides that, if I were in my counterpart’s place I can’t be entirely sure I’d behave any differently. You’re…pleasantly different from the Grantaire I’ve been landed with in my time period.” He lowered his eyes, suddenly a bit shy and achingly melancholy. “To be frank, I wouldn’t mind trading.”

“Uh…um. Hm. How ‘bout that. Well anyway, bathroom’s this way. Do they have toilets in the 19th century? I don’t know if they have toilets, but if they do then this one’s way better anyway. Blows the doors off of those ones. And the shower. Oh fuck, man, you’re going to love this shower. C’mon, follow me.”

Grantaire kept up an insistent stream of babbling all while he demonstrated unfamiliar technology to his 19th century guest, keeping him from getting a word in edgewise and hopefully discouraging anymore unwanted declarations. To his dismay, the other Enjolras kept gazing at him with this sad, tender sort of look in his ridiculously pretty eyes, and Grantaire felt an instinctual response to cuddle him and make him smile.

He kept his instincts in check though, because this was _not his_ Enjolras.

When he left the house with his Enjolras at his side, the two Parisians were already sniping at each other about the supposed wonders of the 21st century. Enjolras resolutely closed and locked the door on their bickering, and the two made their way downstairs and out to the car.

“I swear to god, I’m going to smack him,” Enjolras grumbled as he got into the driver side.

Grantaire frowned as he buckled himself in. “What did the other me do?”

“What? Nothing. It’s the other me. He’s being an absolute shit. Did you hear him just now, saying all those horrible things to the other you just because he rightly pointed out that the end of monarchy didn’t bring liberation to the masses the way the other me had been sure it would? He’s not wrong. We’re still fighting for human rights and equality in the age of supposed democracy, though there have been some notable advances since their time.”

“Eh. I noticed the other me openly shitting on all of the other you’s hopes and dreams. I can’t blame him for being ticked off.” Grantaire smirked as something occurred to him. “So we’re both irritated as fuck with our other selves then?”

“Guess so.” Enjolras sighed. “All I can see are the details about myself I’m not particularly fond of. The rush to anger, the tendency to ignore a middle ground or any chance of compromise, and the harshness…sometimes I wonder how you could possibly love me.”

“Because you’re fucking perfect,” Grantaire answered without any pause for thought. “You liking me at all is the real mystery. By the by…the, um…I think the other you has a crush on me.”

“I’m pretty sure the arrogant bastard hates the other you, actually.”

“No, Enj, I agree with you there. He definitely doesn’t like the other me. Uh…I think he likes me-me. He said this morning that he wanted to trade us.”

Enjolras’ grip on the steering wheel suddenly turned white knuckled. Grantaire regretted having spoken.

“I mean but obviously that’s not an option,” Grantaire said.

“No, it’s not.” Enjolras’ anger (and perhaps a touch of jealousy?) drained out of him. He impatiently shoved some hair out of his eyes, turning suddenly fidgety. “If he’d just be kinder to the other you, perhaps he wouldn’t feel the need for a trade.”

Grantaire shrugged. “I suppose anything’s possible.”

* * *

 

A few days passed by in relative peace with only a few awkward incidents here and there. Most of them were harmless and even humorous, such as other-Enjolras trying to get the dishwasher working without assistance. Grantaire found him drenched, ineffectually trying to cover the edges of the dishwasher with towels he’d taken from the linen closet while the other-Grantaire laughed at him from the doorway.

The most awkward conversation by far had been the second night, when they’d sat the accidental time travelers down and explained alcoholism to them. They’d borrowed one of Joly’s textbooks so they could go over it from a medical angle. Other-Enjolras didn’t say a word during the discussion, looking cold and even a bit bored while they talked.

19th century Grantaire, on the other hand, had a bit of a breakdown. He was nervously fidgeting from the get-go, and then about halfway through he looked up at them almost pleadingly. “So it’s not my fault I’m this way?”

Enjolras released a sharp breath. “No, it’s not. It’s a medical condition. That much has been proven. It is something you can work on though.” He reached over and grabbed his Grantaire’s hand. “He’s been sober for almost two months now.”

“We’re kinda trying to keep me away from alcohol so I don’t slip into my old habits,” Grantaire continued. “The urge to go out and get smashed can be really overwhelming sometimes. I wouldn’t be doing as well as I am without Enjolras’ help.”

The other-Grantaire’s eyes were locked on their joined hands. Enjolras’ heart broke a little bit for him.

The sullen drunkard gave himself a little shake, seeming to come out of a daze. He put on a façade of joviality that wasn’t convincing in the least, but that none of them questioned, and promised to keep his habits away from his counterpart. “Apparently there’s actually a world in which I’m meant to be happy. I wouldn’t dream of ruining that for myself.”

Without saying a word, the other Enjolras got up and left for the den, which by that point had become his for-all-intents-and-purposes bedroom.

Enjolras had been hoping that the other Grantaire might be influenced by _his_ Grantaire’s decision to sober up and fight his depression, but he was sadly disappointed. The other Grantaire didn’t drink in the apartment, but once he’d become acculturated enough to 21 st century Massachusetts to leave the house on his own he went out and got hammered nearly every night. They’d lose him sometime between meeting their friends at the Musain and heading home, and then they’d find him in the morning collapsed on the living room sofa, snoring and drooling on himself.

The other Enjolras initially spent most of his free time reading, and then he discovered the internet and the boy was absolutely lost to hashtag activism. Enjolras was tempted to explain what he thought of as obvious limitations, but then, he didn’t see any reason to spoil his other self’s enthusiasm for non-violent change.

It was a little weird to hear the guy talk about how nice it was to protest without having to shoot anybody though.

One night, Enjolras was up late working on a paper when he heard the other Grantaire making his way in. It was close to two in the morning. His Grantaire had gone to bed hours ago. The other Enjolras might still have been up; he’d been online chatting with activists in Egypt the last time Enjolras had poked in on him, though he might have been talking to the Sri Lankans again by this hour.

Enjolras saved his paper, then made his way into the living room where he found other-Grantaire stumbling around the room, trying to strip out of his borrowed hoodie despite a complete lack of coordination.

Enjolras helped him out of the garment as well as the borrowed sneakers, braced an arm around his back, and steadied him as they approached the couch. Then other-Grantaire stumbled, and they both ended up landing on the couch, Grantaire half-on top of him.

As it turned out, he was much stockier than his perpetually underweight 21st century counterpart. Whereas 21st century Grantaire used art as a productive escape from his feelings, especially now that he’d quit drinking, the other Grantaire had given up on painting in favor of some physical pursuits. Enjolras had learned through conversation that the man liked tennis, boxing, and even dancing. Accordingly, he had a fair amount of muscle (heavy, heavy muscle) to go with his slight beer belly.

Enjolras was pressed into the cushions with the warm dead weight on top of him. Thankfully, over a week of 21st century living and grooming standards had had a considerable toll on Grantaire’s odors. He mostly smelled like the brandy he’d been drinking, but Enjolras was also assaulted with a mix of scents he associated with his lover, such as sweat and Grantaire’s soap and shampoo.

That had his body thinking of sex, which was decidedly awkward. He hadn’t had much of it lately, what with the houseguests. He and Grantaire had only managed a few quiet, furtive quickies while they were sure their counterparts were sleeping.

“Grantaire?” Enjolras whispered. “Can you get off of me please?”

“My apologies,” Grantaire slurred. “Didn’ mean to…you smell nice.” And then he was nuzzling against Enjolras. At least the changed position gave Enjolras the leverage to shove him onto another cushion.

“Come on, stop that.” Enjolras kept a hand braced on Grantaire’s shoulder to keep him at arm’s length. “You know I’ve already got a boyfriend.”

“Yes I do. Know it perfectly well, and it’s me. So to be logical about it, if we were to engage in carnal activities it wouldn’t really be a breach of fidelity, now would it?”

Enjolras glared at him, and the drunk noisily laughed. “Who would have thought it? You look just like my Enjolras when you do that. I thought you were too…too nice for that. You’re so different from him. This century has softened you, Enjolras. Or maybe the other me ruined you by making you fall in love.”

“Ruined me?” Enjolras repeated. “He’s certainly brought about a change in me. We’re changing each other, but I think it’s for the better. I’m not as cruel as I used to be.”

“My Enjolras is honest, not cruel. He knows I’m hopeless and he doesn’t mince words about it. Or waste his efforts and precious little time, trying to get me to be something I can’t be.” The other Grantaire slumped low on the couch, and Enjolras finally let go of him, satisfied that his personal space was going to be respected. “You know it’s only a matter of time until the other one turns into me again, right? I’ve been reading up on this alcoholism thing you were going on about, and the depression and…and you must know what the odds of relapse are.”

“I’m helping him,” Enjolras insisted. He stood up, suddenly filled with jittery energy. “I’m looking after him and I’m not tearing him down anymore. He’ll never be you again, because I’m going to spend the rest of my life making him as happy as he’s made me. He’ll never have any reason to retreat into a bottle or drink his feelings or any of it.”

The other Grantaire let out a bitter laugh. “It’s so cute, how passionately you believe these things. You’re a beautiful idiot, Enjolras. But you’re a nice one.” His eyes drooped shut, and soon he was snoring.

Enjolras didn’t bother throwing a blanket over him this time. He stalked into his bedroom and shook his Grantaire awake.

“Huh? What’s-wha?” Grantaire startled awake, eyes widening in a panic before they focused on Enjolras. “Is something wrong?”

Enjolras tangled his hands in Grantaire’s hair and pulled him close for a heated, messy kiss. More asleep than awake and obviously confused, Grantaire still went with it. When Enjolras broke the kiss he let out a surprised murmur and tried to follow his lips.

“’Taire, please just promise me something.”

“Okay, I promise.”

Enjolras’ hands were still buried in Grantaire’s hair, so he gave a sharp tug.

“Ow! Oh come on, you wake me up and stick your tongue down my throat, what do you expect? Enj? Is something actually wrong?”

Enjolras closed his eyes and rested his forehead against Grantaire’s. “Please promise me that you actually want to get better. You’re so much stronger now. You always said you never believed in anything but me. Do you believe in yourself now? In your recovery? I love you, ‘Taire. I don’t want to see you become that…that…what you were before. I don’t want you to be suffering like that again.”

“Oh.” Grantaire wrapped his arms around Enjolras and cuddled him close. “Come on, babe. Isn’t it enough that you’re saving me? You’re truly wonderful and absolutely amazing, but expecting you to save two Grantaires is asking a bit much.” He ran his fingers through Enjolras’ hair, and Enjolras leaned into the touch, calming under the gentle ministrations.

“I hate seeing you in pain. Apparently that extends to other centuries as well.” Enjolras leaned up a little bit and studied Grantaire’s face. He looked tired, of course, but generally so much better than he used to. The shadows under his eyes were mostly gone, and the skin there was almost never puffy or irritated anymore, and his whole complexion in general had improved. The weight and the sadness barely touched his expression these days.

Grantaire cupped Enjolras’ face in his hand and smiled sleepily at him. “I’m okay. I promise. If anything, meeting the other me has strengthened my resolve to never sink that far into my shit ever again.” He pressed a quick, tender kiss to Enjolras’ lips and then slowly sank back against the pillows. “Now stop worrying and go to bed. It’s fucking ridiculous o’clock. Even uptight cum laude activists need to sleep.”

“Summa cum laude, unless something goes horribly wrong between now and graduation.” Enjolras playfully whapped Grantaire’s shoulder, then began undressing for bed. Once he was down to his t-shirt and underwear he slid under the covers and curled up against Grantaire’s side.

“You’re thinking really loudly,” Grantaire mumbled.

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Sure it does. You’re tense as fuck. S’like trying to cuddle with an actual statue. Can’t you relax and go to sleep?”

Enjolras sighed. “I’m just worried. How much longer do you think they’re going to be here?”

“Dunno. Forever, maybe. No one’s figured out how they got here so we can’t exactly send them back.”

“What do we do? If that’s the case…they can’t live on our couches forever.”

Grantaire reluctantly opened his eyes. “I suppose not, but I don’t know what we’re going to do about it at…whatever-the-fuck o’clock.”

“It’s quarter of three.”

“Go to sleep, Enjolras.”

Enjolras obediently closed his eyes, but it was at least another hour before he managed to drift off.

* * *

 

The next morning the doppelgangers were gone. They seemed to have disappeared entirely, just as suddenly and inexplicably as they’d appeared. When informed of this, Bahorel gave a sage nod and said something about a cosmic planetary alignment, and Combeferre choked on a sip of coffee in his eagerness to swallow and explain everything wrong with Bahorel’s half-assed science fiction based hypothesis.

Of course, the scientifically literate members of their group couldn’t offer any better explanations either.

Meanwhile, the other Grantaire and Enjolras, back in 19th century Paris, felt a mix of relief and disappointment in getting home. They arrived still wearing the clothing they’d borrowed from their counterparts, which wouldn’t have gone unnoticed in broad daylight. So they spent the day prowling around out of sight, and once night fell they stealthily made their way to Enjolras’ rooms, which were closer.

They hadn’t said much during the day. Rather, they hadn’t said much to each other at all since their odd adventure had begun. Grantaire, feeling lonely for his friends, had sought out the company of their American equivalents. He wasn’t quite prepared to admit it aloud, but he was exceptionally excited about the prospect of going to _his_ Musain or _his_ Corinth and finding the right Bossuet or Bahorel or Courfeyrac.

And Enjolras had mostly sat by himself reading books or looking at the computer and marveling at the wonders of the future.

They dressed in silence. Enjolras contemplated the t-shirts and pajama pants they’d been wearing, wondering what he should do with them. “I wish there was a way to return those garments.”

“I wish there was a way to get our original garments back. I rather liked the trousers I’d been wearing. They were a good fit.” Grantaire cast a self-conscious look down at the old, rather worn pair he was borrowing from Enjolras. “Sorry to say, but I think I’m stretching these ones a bit. I’ll pay to have them repaired before I return them.”

“Grantaire, I’m not concerned. There are more important things to think of than stretched clothing.”

Grantaire had been making his way towards the door, but Enjolras stopped him with a hesitant hand on his arm. “If you wouldn’t mind, I have a few things I’d like to discuss with you.”

“In that case, I suppose I can put off my appointment with my bottle for a bit longer.” Grantaire followed him to the other room, and the two of them sat opposite each other.

For the past two weeks Grantaire had spent more time with the nice Enjolras than this one. Really, there weren’t many physical differences between them, but his eye still sought out and catalogued each and every one, from the way his hair curled against his neck to the rigid set of his brow as he puzzled over what he wanted to say.

“I think it’s for the best if we keep quiet about where we’ve been. No one would believe us, and besides that, I’m still not entirely sure what happened. I’d like to think nearly two centuries of progress and the decline of monarchy would have done more for the people than that.”

Grantaire sighed. “Believe me, Enjolras, I wasn’t planning on saying anything. So we’re to pretend nothing happened then?”

Enjolras slowly shook his head. “I see no reason to keep quiet about it when we are alone. I can’t stop thinking about our alternate selves. Keeping these thoughts to myself would be a burden.”

“I’ve been thinking about them as well.” Grantaire impatiently tapped his fingers against his knee, a nervous tic he’d picked up from his counterpart.

Enjolras leaned forward, attention riveted to Grantaire in a way he’d always sought but found terrifying now that he’d achieved it. “And what have you been thinking?”

Coherent speech with that sharp focus on him just wasn’t a possibility. Grantaire lowered his eyes under the scrutiny. However, because it was Enjolras, he answered honestly.

“Mostly I’ve been torturing myself with the most frustrated jealousy and a longing more pathetic than what I’d known before. And believe me, the longing I’d felt in the past had been more than sufficient. The idea that I could be anything more than this, that I might somehow conquer my vices…it’s strange. It barely seems possible, and yet, unless we were both prey to some hideous delusion then I saw proof of its possibility. Moreover…everything I read on those medical conditions fit me. I feel like I’ve been cheated, being born when I have beyond the reach of the aid I require. I could be better than I am. I could even be…” He stopped himself before he said it, but the meaning came through all the same.

Grantaire had declared his feelings for Enjolras before, but never when he was in a state to do them justice. The baseness of what he felt was always expressed more clearly than his actual heart, which was remarkably pure for such a flawed man. Enjolras was fully aware Grantaire desired him, but Grantaire had never conveyed that he loved Enjolras as well.

“I grew rather fond of the other you,” Enjolras said, voice quiet and pensive. “At first I thought it was some trick due to the different realities. He seemed so different from you. I think most of the differences stem from circumstance. You feign happiness and joviality while the opposite is true, and he was melancholy and self-deprecating on the surface while being supported and fulfilled. I…I would like to be patient with you in the future. I had no idea that you were struggling as you are. I should like to help you, if I can. Perhaps not to the extent the other me has taken on the burden, but I should like to do better than I have."

Grantaire snorted in disdain. "Ah, so you've swapped disdain for pity then?"

"What do you expect of me, Grantaire? I don't feel the peculiar fondness for you my other self showed towards your counterpart, and I've no desire to fake it. And I don't believe for a second that you'd want me to, were I so inclined."

"That much is true."

They sat in an uncomfortable silence for some minutes, Grantaire with his eyes lowered and spirits to match, Enjolras studying him thoughtfully. Grantaire was the first to break under the prolonged quiet. He rose to his feet and started for the door. "We seem to have carried this conversation as far as either of us are willing to go. My apologies for running away, but I'd rather privacy than your scrutiny just now."

"Wait. Grantaire, please. I'd like to settle this somehow, if it's possible."

Grantaire narrowed his eyes. "Uncertainty suits you poorly, Enjolras. Your pig-headed, self-righteous idealism is a better fit."

"The other you explained your tricks, and I won't be distracted by your insults and petty deflections anymore. Please." Enjolras grasped his arm, drawing all Grantaire's attention to the one point of contact. Enjolras touched him so little. The warmth and strength of the grip silenced and stilled him as he tried to memorize the feel of Enjolras' touch, even with the fabric of a sleeve between them.

"Grantaire," Enjolras continued, "I do not love you as the other me loves the Grantaire of his world at present, but I believe I could learn to. As you well know, I've never before cared for romantic pursuits. However, our time in that world has made me reconsider a few of my assumptions on the matter. Would you sit down and let me explain my thoughts to you?"

"Does that mean you are going to let me go?"

Enjolras must have noticed that Grantaire was leaning towards him, and he certainly must have seen the amazement on his face as he continuously glanced down at his arm. A small smile not quite ruined by the pity it contained graced Enjolras' lips. He gently stroked his hand down Grantaire's arm until he was able to clasp his hand instead. "Here." He guided Grantaire back towards the chairs, and pulled his own closer to Grantaire's so that they might continue holding hands. Enjolras sat so that they were facing each other, his attention fixed unwaveringly on Grantaire's face. Grantaire had not the strength of character to return that intensity, and so his eyes stayed on their joined hands. He was silent, sure that he could only ruin such a moment, so Enjolras once again took up the conversation.

"Our time...wherever it actually was we happened to be, challenged several of my ideas, first and foremost the value of a romantic relationship for a man who has pledged himself to the people. I'd thought such an endeavor distracting, potentially selfish, and potentially damaging for the person burdened with my confidence and...attachment. The alternative versions of us defy all those notions. They grew stronger together, supporting each other. Whereas I am generally pleased with myself as I am I do confess that I could use some...softening, I suppose. I lose sight of certain things. It is left to other of our friends to convey to the people why we must fight, how it can touch their lives, as I do not intend to have a life beyond the struggle. As Combeferre has pointed out, it can be difficult for the average man to relate to the goals I speak of when they are expressed as intangible ideals. I would benefit much from an experience others could empathize with."

Grantaire nodded his agreement. He'd said as much, rather inelegantly in comparison to their guide, and with the cynical goal of relating why the mass of the people would never support Enjolras.

"So, in this new contemplation of the use of human emotion, you might as well fix on me as a target because you've seen it work for another you? How pragmatic."

"I'm not finished," Enjolras said, looking more exasperated than truly annoyed with Grantaire's negativity. "I not only reconsidered my ideas regarding romance, but also my opinion of you and your character. Viewing what I'd assumed were failings or intentional carelessness in light of illness, you become a different sort of man. There's much good in you, were you strong enough to cultivate it. I do not love you as you are now, but were I able to support you, I could very much love what I see in you."

"I would disappoint you, Enjolras."

"Likely, yes. You would disappoint me many times, I'm sure. But as long as an effort, a sincere one, was present, you would not repel me." Enjolras leaned a bit nearer him, and Grantaire tried not to flinch away. "You love me."

Grantaire still could not look from their joined hands. "I do."

"I'd always thought the feelings there were...of a different nature. I'm sorry if I have brought you pain. It was not my intention."

"Enjolras..." Grantaire slid his rough thumb over Enjolras' smoother palm. "I should endeavor to be deserving of your affections, and I believe that is the best I can do at present. I could not bear for you to pretend feelings that are not there, and you've likely a disinclination to do so. To begin, perhaps we could try a more genuine and open sort of friendship than the one we've had?"

"I'd like that. Will you attempt to check any of your vices?"

"If I could count you as a true friend, I believe I might have it in me to conquer them all."

That reserved, vaguely amused smile returned, this time without a hint of pity. Grantaire finally had the strength to lift his gaze, and returned the smile with one of his own. Enjolras brought their joined hands to his lips and placed a light kiss on the back of Grantaire's hand.

"That seems an unusually idealistic assessment from such an avowed cynic," Enjolras observed.

"I'm turning a new leaf. Do you like it?"

"I do. Hope suits you. So you'll permit me an unguarded friendship and your confidence, even if we don't become lovers?"

Grantaire's eyes lowered once more to their joined hands, then returned to Enjolras' unusually warm and undeniably fine eyes.

"I permit it."

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! As always, feedback would be appreciated :)


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